


From the Memory of Time

by StarlingGirl



Series: Hamilton Christmas Trash [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drinking, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Melancholy, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: “I knew that you would do this,” Lafayette mutters. “It has been how long?”“Two and a half years,” Alexander answers, perhaps a little too quickly. He can’t help the faint ache in his chest whenever he thinks of John, the one that has been keeping constant count of the days since John gave him a tight smile and said 'well, I guess that’s that'.Alexander and John haven't seen each other since they broke up, two and a half years ago, when John moved back to South Carolina. Now John's back in New York, and more to the point, he's at this Christmas party. Alexander has no clue how to handle this: John, and all the feelings that his treacherous heart coughs up.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Hamilton Christmas Trash [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559524
Comments: 8
Kudos: 111





	From the Memory of Time

**Author's Note:**

> It's still Christmas trash, but it's slightly more serious Christmas trash. Melancholy, but with a happy ending, because I'm a sucker for a happy ending.
> 
> Title from the Aeneid, Book IX, _nulla dies umquam memori vos eximet aevo._

It’s five minutes before they arrive at the party that Lafayette tosses the bombshell at him, casual, like he doesn’t _care_ that it’s going to blow up in Alexander’s face at any second, leaving little bits of him scattered all over upstate New York.

“It will be so good to see everyone again,” Lafayette says airily, and then jams the heel of his hand against the horn, raising a finger to flip off an Audi that had tried to cut him off. Alexander’s never known anyone so cheerfully aggressive while driving. “How long since we have seen Angelica?”

“Nine months?” Alexander offers, counting backwards through the months since Angelica moved to England with her boyfriend. “Maybe ten.”

“The Schuyler sisters reunited once more! It will be just like ‘the old days’, _non_ ? And now that John is back in New York, it will be a proper reunion—not like last year, when many people were missing. _Sors de la route, connard_ ! _”_ This last is directed at yet another car, Lafayette leaning forward to gesture broadly. Alexander barely notices, still stuck on _John is back in New York._ Without even thinking, his hand rises to his air, absently smoothing it.

“John’s—back?” he asks, aiming for casual. The look of intermingled frustration and pity that Lafayette shoots his way makes it clear enough that he’s missed the mark. He sighs heavily as he settles back into the seat and returns his gaze to the road.

“I knew that you would do this,” Lafayette mutters. “It has been how long?”

“Two and a half years,” Alexander answers, perhaps a little too quickly. He can’t help the faint ache in his chest whenever he thinks of John, the one that has been keeping constant count of the days since John gave him a tight smile and said _well, I guess that’s that._

“And still, you sulk.”

“Yeah, well, he left me. I get to sulk. It’s the only upshot of having your heart broken.” Lafayette blows out a frustrated breath between his teeth. Alexander turns to gaze out of the window, chewing on the inside of his cheek and trying to flatten down the faint panic that’s rearing in his chest.

“It is not like you stopped him,” Lafayette mutters. Alexander winces, drags a hand down his face. It’s convenient and comfortable, blaming John. At first, his friends had let him—but as time went on, their sympathy had become a little strained, and he’d realised that the whole situation wasn’t quite so black-and-white as he’d like to think.

Eventually, Alexander had been forced to admit that when John had talked seriously about accepting an offer from a firm in South Carolina that would finally let him make the move into immigration law, he was probably expecting something more from Alexander than a total unwillingness to entertain compromise or solutions where their relationship was concerned.

John may be the one who left, but Alexander’s the one who pushed him.

“You could have given me some warning,” he mutters, petulantly. He’s already fretting about what he’s wearing, what he’ll say, what he’ll _do._ He and John had been inseparable, their transition from platonic to romantic all but inevitable. Alexander had always had a plan to follow for his future, a checklist of goals and achievements to tick off, and he’d never bothered to imagine any of those things without John by his side until it had happened.

“So that you could get all _weird_ about it?” Lafayette asks, drily. “Trust me, _mon ami_ , I was doing you a favour by concealing this from you.” And the kicker is that Lafayette’s probably right, but Alexander’s too caught up in the fact that he’ll have to see John again, _talk_ to him, that he’s not feeling charitable enough to admit it.

“Have you talked to him recently?” Alexander asks, because he’s nothing if not a masochist.

“Yes,” Lafayette says, after an uncomfortable pause. “We speak regularly.”

He probably should have expected that—John had been friends with all of them, after all, hadn’t belonged solely to Alexander—but it feels like a kick in the gut nonetheless. What’s happened in John’s life that he’s completely missed out on, he wonders? Does John ever ask about him? Probably not. 

Their arrival at Eliza’s is enough to forestall his descent into a spiral of melancholy thoughts, jettisoning him instead into the more immediate panic of how he looks. John always liked his hair down; he pulls it out of its bun and combs his fingers through it, ignoring Lafayette’s flat look as he examines himself in the car’s wing mirror.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s do this, I guess.”

“It is a party, Alexander,” Lafayette says. “Not an execution. _Smile_.”

The apartment is festooned with lights and decorations, and the Christmas music is audible even before the door opens. Eliza—eyes bright, cheeks pink, probably already a few drinks in—sweeps them both into affectionate hugs before she ushers them in. Alexander lets her unwrap the scarf from his neck, laughing as he spins, and take his jacket, feeling himself relax at her high humour. It’s always impossible not to smile when Eliza is smiling.

The apartment is cozy with bodies, almost all faces that Alexander recognises. Some, like Hercules and Lafayette and Peggy, he sees all the time. Others, like Angelica and her boyfriend, he hasn't seen in too long. He does the rounds, squeezing between people and getting swept up into embraces and conversations, until he manages to make it to the kitchen to pick up a drink. He turns, but Lafayette is no longer behind him; Alexander thinks he can see his friend in the corner, head bent conspiratorially with Eliza. He huffs a breath and pushes into the kitchen—and there's John. 

The past two and a half years have apparently been _very_ good to John Laurens. Gone are the loose jeans and baggy, graphic tees, replaced by a slim-fit shirt that skims the taper from broad chest to trim waist. The faint curve of muscle beneath his rolled-up sleeves suggests he's been working out. His face is the same—the soft eyes, the dimple in his left cheek when he smiles—but the freckles littering the bridge of his nose seem bolder against the even, dark tan of his skin. His hair is shorter. He's laughing at something that Ben Tallmadge is saying, and there's a bottle of beer held loosely between his fingers. 

All of this, Alexander notices in the barest of moments, the space between heartbeats. His pulse falters and stumbles, tangling in itself and skittering up his throat. His chest aches. 

Ben glances over and notices him, and in what might either be an act of pity or act of cowardice, he murmurs something to John and ducks away from the conversation, slapping Alexander on the back on the way out. 

John looks at him. 

Alexander feels like the world has been stripped away from him, leaving nothing but himself and John and all the heartbreak they share, scarring the space between them. 

"Hi," John says, softly. Alexander swallows, thinks he might choke in the lump in his throat. 

"Hi," he croaks back. 

There's silence, somehow separate and contained from the music and the noise and the laughter of the party. It blossoms until it fills the room around them, building them their own little world to inhabit.

"Want a drink?" John says, because they both know it's an easier question than _how are you_ or _how have you been_ or _did you ever think of me, late at night, thumb hovering over my contact name, the way I thought of you._

"Drink. Yep, yeah, please." Alexander wonders where Lafayette is, and can't quite decide whether he wants to be rescued, or whether he'd like to marinate in this beautiful torture for a little while more yet. John pulls open the fridge, familiar, like this isn't the first time he's been here. For all Alexander knows, it's not; if John stayed in touch with Lafayette then maybe he stayed in touch with Eliza too. Maybe they've all been having sleepovers every other weekend where they put on face masks and braid each others' hair and talk about what an idiot Alexander is for letting this go. 

John hesitates before he pulls out a beer, as though weighing the odds that Alexander's tastes might have changed. They haven't. He's the same, just the same, and John went away and changed without him, and the thought tastes bitter on his tongue. 

"Thanks," he says, accepting the bottle. And then, because they'll have to get all this out of the way at some point: "You cut your hair."

John's fingers fly up to tug on a curl, surprised. "Uh, yeah. I'm actually growing it back out, so."

Alexander tries to imagine John with short hair, _really_ short hair, and finds that he can't. If he’d been there, he would have stopped him from ever cutting it in the first place, too fond of those tumbling curls, the way he looks when he pulls them back into a half-bun. 

"Lafayette said you're back in New York," Alexander says. Small talk, right? Polite. If you ignore the slight tone of betrayal in his words. John smiles and it's apologetic, because he knows Alexander too well to be fooled. 

"Yeah. Started a job with a new firm a couple of weeks ago." A couple of weeks. John has been in the city for a couple of weeks. Alexander's amazed that he hadn't known, somehow, that he hadn't been able to _feel_ it. Two weeks, and he hadn't said anything. John seems to understand his silence. "It's been sort of mad. Moving back, starting a new job. This is the first time I've really managed to see anyone."

"Right," Alexander says. "Right."

Another brief silence. This used to be so easy, talking with John. They could fill hours and hours with effortless back and forth, John meeting Alexander's every tangent and rolling with it. On the rare occasions that Alexander would run out of things to say, the silence would be comfortable. Not like this, stilted and full to the brim with awkward and unspoken words. 

“Alexander,” John says, sudden and low and urgent, just as Lafayette _sweeps_ into the kitchen, arms outstretched.

“John Laurens!” John tears his gaze from Alexander and lets a laugh smooth the furrow on his forehead as he steps forward into Lafayette’s embrace, allows himself to be rocked back and forth in it. Jealousy rises in Alexander’s throat and he wonders if he should have gone in for a hug, too, broken that tension between them. He can remember, all too clearly, what it feels like to be fitted up against John like he belongs there. Then again, he thinks, letting his eyes trail up the length of John’s body, maybe he wouldn’t any more. Maybe someone else does. 

The thought makes him feel sick. 

"Come, come," Lafayette chides them both flapping his hands to usher them out of the kitchen and into the mess of people beyond. "It is a party. You are supposed to have fun, not stand around in the kitchen."

Alexander turns on his heel, holding himself stiffly, and practically flees towards Hercules, tucking himself between his friend's bulk and the wall, where no one can see him falling apart. 

Except Hercules, of course, who pinches him in the ribs, taps the bottle in his hand and tells him "just relax, man. Don't make it weird." Alexander does as he's told for once in his life, and swings the bottle back to take a long pull from it to wash the cloying taste of unhappiness from his tongue. He lets himself get pulled into an argument about whether Christmas movies should be further subdivided by genre, and only looks at John every other time he desperately finds himself wanting to. He catches John looking back twice, something melancholy sketched across his face that he can’t bear to be witness to.

But of course, Alexander can’t hide behind Hercules all evening. It’s a small apartment and a relatively small group of people, and Alexander’s friends are also John’s friends. At some point after he empties his third bottle, the flow of people shunts him into a conversation with Lafayette and Angelica. Seconds later, he becomes aware of a warm body appearing by his side, a full bottle being pressed into his hands, a sharp twist in his stomach that means that the fingers that brush against his when he takes it can only be John’s.

He glances up, swallowing hard, and smiling his thanks. John smiles back down at him, small and soft and perhaps a little sad. Alexander turns his attention back to the conversation and catches Lafayette looking between them a little too intently, until Angelica elbows him in the side. Unsubtle.

“So, John,” she says. “Are you all settled in? Moving long-distance is a bitch. I should know.”

John laughs. “You had it worse; I didn’t have to cross any oceans,” he reminds her. “It’s not too bad. Bunch of stuff still in boxes, so the place doesn’t really feel like mine yet, you know? But the city does. Better fit than Charleston.”

"You said your apartment is in Brooklyn?" Lafayette asks, and Alexander is embarrassingly grateful for all this secondhand information, stores it away to pore over later. 

"Yeah. Nice place, but the street is hipster as fuck. First day back I didn’t arrive until late and I was so tired I couldn’t bear the thought of finding dinner, so I ended up eating at some raw vegan restaurant just down the road.”

“Gross,” Angelica says, wrinkling her nose.

“It wasn’t so bad,” John says with a shrug. 

“Yeah, well, you’re the only human being on the planet who actually enjoys kale,” Alexander mutters, before he can check the words that are leaving his mouth. He freezes, humiliated by the slip back into the strange intimacy of _knowing_ each other, right down to their habits and foibles and quirks, but John only laughs, shrugs a shoulder.

“Guilty.”

The conversation moves on, pulls Alexander along with it, inescapable. He doesn’t ask any direct questions, concerned about seeming pushy or desperate, concerned about not deserving the answers, but hoards every little thing that John lets slip, mapping it all out in his mind in an attempt to fill in the two and a half year blank. The whole time, John stays by his side, and Alexander can’t tell whether John is standing too close or he’s just too aware of him. The urge to lean in is almost overwhelming, the hope that John would thoughtlessly hook an arm around his waist if he did nearly too tempting to pass up.

And then they’re swept apart, Eliza dragging John away, giggling, and Alexander slinking back to the kitchen to find something stronger than the beers he’s been relying on thus far.

He pours himself two fingers of whiskey, no mixer, and relishes in the burn of it at the back of his throat as he takes a long sip. He wants to beg Lafayette to drive them home just as much as he doesn’t want to leave; he’s torn by John’s presence and the confusion of emotions it’s kicking up inside of him.

“Alexander?”

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear, looking like sin incarnate; John’s cheeks are flushed pink by the heat and the drinks, and there’s a curl falling artfully into one eye that Alexander is desperate to push back, and his lips are wet where his tongue has darted out, nervous.

“Oh, hey,” Alexander says, weakly, and clutches his glass in front of his chest like it might shield him from some of these feelings beating at his rib cage, desperate to be let in.

“You okay?” John asks. It’s a huge question, too broad, yes-or-no insufficient to explain the turmoil he’s experiencing. Then John nods at the glass, and Alexander realises that John knows that Alexander doesn’t like to drink neat spirits except when he’s stressed or anxious, and that the question isn’t _are you okay_ it’s _are you okay right now_?

He sighs.

“I’m fine?” It sounds like a question. He steels himself, tries again. “I’m fine. It’s just—a lot.” He finds that one of his hands has left the cool comfort of his glass and is sketching a vague gesture between the two of them. He forces it to drop, embarrassed.

“Yeah,” John agrees. “It is.”

There’s a brief silence, and then Alexander blows a breath hard from his lips and lets out a laugh that’s a little too sharp-edged to be convincing. “This whole having-nothing-to-say thing is new for me.”

“I’m pretty sure we can figure something out,” John says. “Between us.” And then he reaches out and plucks the glass from Alexander’s grip, taking a mouthful of whiskey like he’s nervous. Alexander pretends not to watch the way his throat moves as he does. John opens his mouth to speak again.

“Beep beep!” Peggy says loudly as she squeezes in past John; John steps forward to let her past and right into Alexander’s space. One of John’s hands brushes at Alexander’s arm as though to keep him out of Peggy’s way as she picks up a bottle with each hand, not stopping to check the labels, and grinning maniacally at them before dashing back out of the kitchen.

“Well _that_ doesn’t feel like a good sign,” Alexander says, and John’s laughter startles him, close enough that he can feel the hot tickle of John’s breath on his cheek. Peggy dashes back in before either Alexander or John can say anything else.

“Get your asses in here,” she says, too loud and words a little unsteady. She throws her arms out, grandiose and ceremonial. “It is time!”

“Time for what?” John asks. Peggy frowns at him.

“Time,” she repeats, vague and somewhat ominous, and begins to tug on his sleeve until John acquiesces and follows her, glancing back at Alexander with an apologetic shrug. Alexander bites off his sigh and follows too. Eliza is standing on the couch, feet spread wide for balance and Hercules reaching up to steady her.

“Wishes!” she says, and it’s clear that, like Peggy, she’s been making the most of the free-flowing alcohol. “Christmas wishes!”

John and Alexander groan in perfect tandem as they settle themselves at the edge of the little knot of people around Eliza. There are several others with similar reactions around the room. Lafayette cheers. Peggy _whoops._

“I didn’t realise this tradition continued past college,” John mutters.

“It didn’t,” Alexander says. “So I’m blaming this throwback on you.”

They smile at each other, remembering. Alexander aches.

On the couch, Eliza lifts a bottle of vodka, two-thirds empty, the lid already off. Hercules curses as she wobbles, one foot slipping on the couch cushions, and he grabs her unceremoniously around the waist to keep her from falling. 

“Ooh,” she says salaciously, and wiggles her eyebrows, and then—as an afterthought—her hips. Hercules rolls his eyes, and doesn’t let go. “Alright then, Mr. Mulligan, _my_ Christmas wish is for you to either grab my ass _properly_ or let go.” There’s laughter, and Hercules hesitates, eyes darting over towards Angelica—notoriously protective—before he shrugs, and shifts his hands. Peggy tries to whistle, fails.

“My Christmas wish is for you to get down off this damn couch before you fall down,” Hercules returns. 

“Boo!” Peggy calls. “Boring!”

Eliza shrugs and pitches herself towards Hercules, who catches her with a grunt and sets her down onto the ground. She sways and grins and turns to point at Peggy.

“How long before this gets stupid, d’you think?” John mutters. Alexander thinks back to the times they’d played this in college—truth or dare by any other name, slightly tweaked to make it feel a little more festively appropriate.

Abruptly, he remembers that the first time they kissed was during a game of Christmas wishes—both of them already drunk and tucked against each other, only days away from finally giving in to the fledgling romance cradled between them. Alexander had murmured the Christmas wish into John’s ear, words slurring together, and John had laughed and turned his head and caught his lips without hesitation. It had been nothing at all, a chaste little thing, and Alexander had thought about it for the next forty-eight hours on an obsessive loop until they’d kissed again, sober this time, real and eager and perfect. He wonders if any of their friends saw it, that first moment. He wonders if they remember.

John must. How could he forget it, that one tipsy action that had sent them tumbling at last into each others’ arms? 

“I give it about thirty seconds,” Alexander replies, belatedly, pulling himself back to the present and remembering that John has posed him a question. He can feel heat high on his cheeks, embarrassed by such tender thoughts for a man no longer his. John’s too close; Alexander can feel his warm bulk against his side. He tries to shift subtly away, to breathe.

“My Christmas wish is for Lafayette to take his shirt off,” Peggy says, lasciviously, to a chorus of hoots and laughs. “What? He has great abs!” Lafayette, still fully sober, begins to look a little cornered when Peggy advances towards him with grabby hands. He snatches the bottle from her hand—rum, Alexander thinks—and takes a long draft to free himself of the responsibility of complying, spluttering and coughing as he lowers the bottle. 

“Ugh, spoilsport,” Peggy grumbles.

“Thirty seconds was optimistic,” John says. “Here, come on.”

John takes his hand and Alexander nearly squeaks out loud. His fingers curl through John’s, muscle memory that can’t be forgotten, and every nerve ending feels like it’s been set alight. He tries to breathe through the bubble in his chest and stumbles after John when he tugs them lightly away from the gathered little crowd, still laughing and calling out suggestions for Lafayette’s wishes.

John pushes open a door to what must be Eliza’s bedroom, and they slip in, Alexander’s pulse thundering loud enough to give away their position to anyone who comes looking, the tell-tale heart that never stopped loving John Laurens.

John drops his hand. Alexander curls his fingers in on themselves, like he might be able to cling to some of the warmth there. John sighs out a breath of relief, and runs his hands through his curls.

“Running away from the party to the nearest bedroom—this really is a college throwback,” Alexander says, and then regrets the flippant comment immediately. John smiles, but it’s a little tight and a little awkward. 

“Alexander,” he says, for the third time that evening. Alexander takes a step backward and leans against the door, half-expecting someone to wander in and interrupt them again.

“Just making sure,” he says, when John looks at him questioningly.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry,” John mumbles. Alexander blinks.

“Oh?”

“For not telling you that I was coming back to New York. For not telling you anything, never getting back in touch. For—I don’t know, for leaving in the first place?” John runs a hand over his face and Alexander feels guilt unspool in his stomach. “I just didn’t know what to do. It felt like a conversation we could have had, about going long-distance or compromising or figuring something out, and we just… didn’t. And I’ve regretted it ever since, so.”

Alexander’s breath catches.

“Pretty sure that’s my apology to make,” he mutters, gaze dropping, too embarrassed to look John in the eye as he says it. “You were ready to have that conversation and I just _freaked out_. I was so concerned with my own shit that I didn’t stop to consider yours. And then I guess I was too proud to reach out. Or stubborn, or something. Intent on it being your fault.”

“So we’re both idiots,” John says, tired amusement in his words.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Alexander forces himself to look back up and finds John looking at him, distant and tortured, indecision painted clear across his face. He thinks he probably must look just the same, wrestling with what to say, what not to say. What to ask, what to hope for, what to give up on as already lost.

“I’m back now,” John says, unnecessarily. Alexander nods, slowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “So—we should maybe start talking again. Since we’re gonna be hanging out with the same friends.” John nods, and slides his hands into the pockets of the jeans that have been giving Alexander very confusing feelings all evening.

“It would make sense.” He smiles a little. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“Uh-huh.” Another long beat of silence, the tension between them only ratcheted higher by the apologies. It’s almost unbearable; Alexander feels like his skin is too tight for his body, like the itch of having John nearby is settling in against his bones.

“You look good,” John blurts, and Alexander raises his eyebrows because, what? He’s exactly the same as he always was—same hair, same tired eyes, hell, he’s pretty sure he even owned the shirt he’s wearing back when they were together. John, on the other hand—

“—ah, fuck,” John says, and Alexander is already stepping forward to meet John halfway, their hands reaching out to touch and to tangle, grabbing at each other with a desperation that Alexander is all too relieved to find is mutual. He takes a fistful of John’s shirt, tangles his fingers into John’s hair, and when they kiss it’s enough to knock all the air from him.

John’s more muscled now, the planes of his body less yielding under Alexander’s fingers, but they fit together almost perfectly nonetheless. John’s fingers are biting almost too-hard into Alexander’s hips, pulling him close. His lips against Alexander’s are eager and pliant and everything, the only thing that Alexander can focus on. John flicks his tongue against the seam of Alexander’s lips, licks in behind his teeth when Alexander obligingly parts them. Alexander is already gasping, breathless, kissing John with all the pent-up heartbreak that he’s been storing up for nearly three years. John takes it all, softens it, kisses back with an intensity that nevertheless leaves room for tenderness. 

He does something with his tongue that’s new, that Alexander doesn’t recognise, and the thought that John might have been kissing other people, _learning_ from other people drives a low growl from his throat. He tugs on John’s hair and John whines into the kiss.

They’re both a little too preoccupied to realise that the door has been opened until Peggy’s voice cuts across their breathy moans and murmured exclamations of each others’ names.

“Alexander, it’s your turn to—oh! Well, never mind.” Alexander tears his focus away from John only through a tremendous effort, and blinks up at Peggy, who’s grinning at them from the doorway.

“My Christmas wish is for you to close the goddamn door on your way out,” Alexander says, breathless and embarrassed and clutching so needily to John, unwilling to let him go even for a second.

“And then stay out,” John adds. Peggy throws her head back and cackles, slams the door shut; Alexander thinks he hears Eliza shriek something that might be ‘ _not in my bed!’_

He turns back to John. John’s curls are a mess where Alexander has tangled his fingers into them, pulled on them. His lips are shiny and just a little swollen and his pupils are blown wide, and whatever else has changed, that look is just the same as Alexander remembers it. He reaches out in gentle reverence, soft fascination, and drags his thumb across John’s lower lip. When John tries to chase it, he tugs it away, trailing down his chin, skims it along his jawline and then drags down his neck, feels rather than hears the click-catch of John’s breath in his throat when he rests it at the hollow between his collarbones.

“We should talk about this,” John says, and Alexander forces a moment of rationality on himself. He takes a steadying breath.

“We really should,” he agrees. There’s two and a half years and a sixteen hundred mile round trip still lingering between them—gaps that need to be filled, apologies that need to be made, conversations that need to be had. Skipping over it all is what put those years and miles between them in the first place. So if there’s one thing they should really be doing, right now, it’s talking.

A pause.

“Later,” John says, hurried and all at once.

“Later,” Alexander confirms fervently, and then they’re kissing again, like they never stopped. Like stupid Christmas wishes really do come true.

**Author's Note:**

> :')
> 
> I'm still writing Christmas trash! At the moment, I'm posting one every time I finish up the next one, so I never feel too under pressure. But if you want to come and chat about what I've got planned, or even make requests, [come and find me on tumblr!](https://seekstrivefind.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, despite it being trash, feedback is always, always appreciated.


End file.
